


Constellations

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Blood and Injury, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Injury, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Major Character Injury, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:41:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23862469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: Jaskier will always care. When love started to kindle between them, breathing became that bit harder when Geralt wouldn’t return when he said he would. Even if the Witcher was late by a couple of minutes, Jaskier paced so often that the soles of his boots threatened to wear away.But Geralt always came back: carrying a limp or holding his side, fingers smudged with dirt and blood. But he always came back.This is different.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 42
Kudos: 484
Collections: Best Geralt





	Constellations

**Author's Note:**

> Me: "We've already written a hurt!fic though?"  
> Me: "HURT FIC HURT FIC HURT FIC"  
> Me: "Maybe you could do those 5 other fics in your drafts? Or those story ideas you want to turn into books?"  
> Me: "HURT. FIC. HURT. FIC. HURT. FIC."  
> Me: *sighs*

It’s never anything more than a scratch.

Well, no. It’s always more than a scratch to him, he supposes.

Geralt has a map of scars littering his skin that are reminders of old injuries. Most of them are faded pale lines against his skin; but the worst of them, thicker, jagged lines stretching over his stomach and heart, are from times where danced a bit too close to death.

But in the time where Jaskier has been with him, he has never gotten so much as, as Geralt puts it, “a scratch”. Even in the aftermath of griffin and bruxa fights, when Geralt comes back to their camp or to their shared room in an inn, he shrugs off Jaskier’s fidgeting hands. “I’ll live, bard,” he grunts, padding over to the other side of the room to do whatever it is that needs doing to stop the bleeding.

Jaskier will always care. When love started to kindle between them, breathing became that bit harder when Geralt wouldn’t return when he said he would. Even if the Witcher was late by a couple of minutes, Jaskier paced so often that the soles of his boots threatened to wear away.

But Geralt always came back: carrying a limp or holding his side, fingers smudged with dirt and blood. But he always came back.

This is different.

He returned from a hunt, stumbling into their rented inn room, eyes still blackened and dark tendrils spreading out over his pale skin, a red stain across one side of his chest. Jaskier barely had time to speak the Witcher’s name before he crumpled to the ground with a pained grunt.

The town is large enough to have several healers making their businesses in it – but only one of them actually comes to help. No one bothers with Witchers, no matter what good they do for those living on the land. It’s something Jaskier has come to know. The people glowering and sneering at Geralt as he walks through villages and towns won’t lift a finger to help him if he ever did ask for it. The innkeep was a kind woman, offering them a good room and better food if the Witcher dealt with a bruxa problem in the forest nearby, scaring away all of her produce suppliers. Geralt took the contract – because of course he did, they were being offered a room and food after a long journey of having neither.

Jaskier can only presume it was her who ran to every healer’s apothecary within the town. He barely had Geralt settled on the bed when the healer steps into the room; and a long breath rushes out of Jaskier. He thanks every god he can remember the name of as the woman sets her leather work-bag on the foot of the bed. She fishes out fistfuls of clean, white rags and sets them to the side; along with glass vials of ointments and potions.

Jaskier sets his hand on Geralt’s forehead. It’s damp with sweat, and his skin is almost scalding. Jaskier clicks his tongue. “You’ll be alright, my love,” he says gently, wincing at how Geralt’s face scrunches up at another bout of pain shaking through him. The black tendrils that sit where his veins would are starting to ebb away. And once his potion’s effects are gone, searing pain will replace it.

“Do you know how to clean a wound, bard?” the woman says, already handing him some cloth and a vial of reddish liquid.

Jaskier swallows and nods. He’s spent sun-turns following this damn man. Of course he knows what to do with wounds.

It’s just the initial panic that flashes through his body that he can’t quite get rid of yet. In fact, if he’s being totally honest, he thinks it’s getting worse.

He manages to get Geralt’s loose shirt off – a chunk of it having been torn by whatever it was that he was hunting. It’ll be mended in the morning, but as soon as Jaskier tosses the piece of clothing aside, he has to swallow at what he sees.

It’s deep. Jaskier sets his fingers around the wound. It’s a gash spreading across Geralt’s pectoral. It’s so deep he worries that Geralt’s own heart and lungs might burst out. Blood gushes out of it, staining his hands and pooling underneath his fingernails.

Jaskier fiddles with the vials and cloth. A harsh smell of something metallic covers the roof of his mouth. “This is going to hurt, Geralt,” he says softly, pressing the cloth over the worst of the cut. Geralt’s face pinches and his entire body goes stiff under Jaskier’s hands. “Shush now, I’m here,” Jaskier mumbles, lifting the cloth away. He switches it out for a clean one. Soaking that one with more of the red liquid, he sets about removing whatever dirt and grime he can see within the cut.

Geralt is as stiff as a stone slab beneath him. Jaskier’s eyes dart up to the Witcher’s face. His eyes are squeezed shut, hair splayed over the pillow. His skin is returning to its normal colour. Jaskier winces. “Do you have any poppy’s milk or valerian root?” he directs towards the end of the bed. “He’s in a lot of pain.”

A glass vial suddenly appears beside him. Jaskier looks at what’s inside; a white liquid speckled with black flecks. Poppy’s milk. Jaskier sets the cloths aside for a moment while he uncaps the vial. “Geralt,” he reaches out for the Witcher’s face. Red smears over Geralt’s cheek. “Geralt. Drink some of this. It’ll help.”

Yellow hooded eyes stare blearily back at him. Jaskier sets the vial against Geralt’s lip. He sighs in relief when a few drops of milk are swallowed. It’s strong stuff. He vaguely remembers the opium gardens of the academy being of particular interest to a few students. It never took long for them to fall under the plant’s effects. Geralt’s head grows heavy in his hands. He helps the Witcher lay back against the bed.

The woman moves around the room like a ghost. Jaskier is so focused on the job at hand, he doesn’t notice her grinding herbs with oils by the foot of the bed. He does sense her lean over his shoulder to inspect his work. There’s a soft hum of approval. “It’s deep, but the main problems are blood loss and infection. If we can manage those, he’ll be alright.”

He knows. He wants to snap. _He knows_.

Jaskier’s fingers curl into the pieces of the linen cloths. _Gods above and below, he **knows**. She doesn’t have to keep saying these things. _

Geralt is just as mortal as the rest of them. The gods can touch him. He _can_ die. It takes a lot more of an effort on his assailant’s account, but he can. He’s danced too close to death before. Thankfully never in Jaskier’s presence. But it doesn’t stop the flood of fear that washes through his body every time Geralt stumbles back from a hunt, at the thought that one day, maybe soon or in a few years, Geralt might not come back to him.

Jaskier sucks in a breath. _Stop it_ , he has to tell himself. There’s no point in worrying about any of that now. His fingers tremble as he cleans the worst of the wound, and he’s pretty sure that he hasn’t taken a steady breath since Geralt fell to the ground. But _there’s no point in panicking_.

He’s stitched Geralt back together before – in the areas along his back and shoulders where the Witcher can’t reach himself. He’s become quite good at it, if he were to say so. But with a wound this deep, bright red with streaks of what looks like muscle peering through, the healer gently nudges him aside. She’s already threaded a thin needle and seared the end with a candle’s flame.

Jaskier moves to the other side of the bed, gathering more cloth as he goes. Blood still trickles out of the wound. The only way to stop it is to knit the Witcher back together again.

He’s pale. The worst of the potions are fading from him. But his skin is still so pale that Jaskier sets his hand against it to feel for warmth. And Geralt is still scalding.

A tremor shakes his body. “It’s the potions, darling,” Jaskier says lowly, taking up a place by Geralt’s side. He soothes his hand along the unmarred side of the Witcher’s chest. “You’ve done it all before. It’s alright.”

When the last of the stitches are pulled tight together, Geralt has finally settled into a sleep. It probably won’t last long, and it’s more to do with the poppy’s milk than anything else. But Jaskier cards his fingers through the Witcher’s hair.

“The wound should heal nicely, but he lost a lot of blood,” the healer says, scrubbing her hands in a nearby basin. Red smudges reach her elbows. “He needs to rest.”

Jaskier hums. “He certainly won’t like that.” They were meant to be on their way to Kaer Morhen for the winter. The call of it had already whispered by Geralt’s ear. He’ll wake in the morning and, knowing him, will grunt out some excuse or other that they need to keep going. That the winds will turn and the roads will freeze over. But the summer has been kind to them this year. Even now, with crops being taken in and farm animals sheltered, the sun still warms the fields.

They have time. They can afford to stop for a moment; especially if it’s Jaskier heavily relying on Geralt to _get_ him to Kaer Morhen in the first place. He can’t imagine he would be able to climb the damn mountain, let alone be let in the gates without the Witcher.

But Jaskier glances over his shoulder to the woman. It’s the first time he’s actually looked at her for more than a moment. “Thank you, my lady,” he breathes. He eyes the leather bag at her feet. “How much do I owe you for-?”

She shakes her head. “You owe me nothing, bard. A life saved is payment enough for me.”

He turns back to Geralt, lying motionless on the bed if not for the slow rise of his chest with every small breath he takes. _He’s alive_. A small sentence stated again and again in his head, repeating it to himself so that the more flighty and anxious side to him will just calm down and see reason.

She leaves him with more potions and ointments; valerian root for pain, arnica for the wound and bruising, tea tree for any infection that might come about. Jaskier places them on the small nightstand beside the bed, within an arm’s reach. As he locks their room door for the night and places another log of wood on the fire, he sighs. It’s the first proper breath he’s taken in what seems like hours.

Whatever had squeezed his chest begins to loosen.

He leaves most of his layers and his boots by the foot of the bed. Geralt’s tunic lies on the ground, still wet with blood. Jaskier stares at it for a moment. He’ll wash it in the morning, and see what he can do about that tear along the neckline.

Geralt’s bandages will need changing every hour. Though the Witcher’s heart is slower to beat than a normal man’s, blood still seeps through his dressings like water. Jaskier struggles to think what it would be like if Geralt were a normal man. _He’d be dead_ , some part of his own mind tells him. _No normal man would survive an attack like this_.

He takes up by the Witcher’s side, sitting back against the headboard of the bed and pillowing Geralt’s head on his lap. Opium will keep him under for another few hours. The hearth’s fire threatens to burn out a few times, but Jaskier can’t bring himself to move away from the other man. He stares at the thing, wishing that the heat from his eyes alone would just make the fire come back to life.

Mumbled nonsense leaves Geralt’s lips. Jaskier can’t sleep, so he listens to it. Carding his fingers through Geralt’s hair, untangling and unknotting dried blood and dirt out of strands, he listens to whispers and mutterings of a girl in the woods, of a city falling, of the south coming north. He frowns. Setting the back of his hand against Geralt’s forehead, his frown only deepens when he finds no fever.

“What’s got you all bothered, hmm?” Jaskier mumbles, returning his fingers to Geralt’s hair. The Witcher doesn’t move; but his face does twitch every so often. A nightmare, maybe. Or a too-real dream. The poppy’s milk will keep him under for a few hours – but Jaskier has never seen its effects on a Witcher. Maybe he’ll doze off and wake to find Geralt stumbling around the room, muttering about a compromised arm and a ruined shirt. Maybe he’ll sleep long into the following afternoon. Jaskier has no idea.

The tavern quietens. Jaskier’s ears prick at the sound of patrons stumbling out on to the streets, calling their goodbyes back to the innkeep. He hears the door being bolted and the rest of the tenants going to their rooms. The floorboards outside squeak and groan with every footfall. Jaskier glances down at the Witcher. His face is lax and regular, slow breaths puff out from a slightly opened mouth. Warmth blooms in Jaskier’s chest. It isn’t often that he’s awake when Geralt isn’t. He falls asleep after Jaskier and wakes up before him. Seeing him like this now, he wants to commit it to memory.

At some point, he must fall asleep. His head falls forward and he jerks awake. Watery morning light streaks in through the window, the curtains still splayed open. A thrum of pain spreads across his lower back, but Jaskier eventually shuffles to lie down on the bed, facing Geralt and setting his hand against the Witcher’s chest. His fingers brush the bandages; a relieved sigh leaving him when he feels that it’s dry and not speckled with red.

The first sign he gets of Geralt surfacing is the slight increase in his heart rate. Jaskier feels it underneath his palm. It’s nothing that noticeable, but Jaskier recognises it from sleeping on Geralt’s chest for countless nights.

When yellow eyes open, blinking blearily, Jaskier has to swallow the lump clawing up his throat. “How are you?” he rasps. “Are you in pain? Do you need anything?”

Geralt grunts. “I’m fine.”

“Oh, you’re so far from being fine,” Jaskier mutters, reaching for the vial of valerian root. He’s become adept at reading his Witcher. In the coming winter, he might compile a dictionary specifically for the damn brute. Some things mean other things in Witcher-speak. And an _I’m Fine_ has hundreds of meanings.

Despite glaring at the vial in Jaskier’s hand, Geralt takes a small sip of the potion. It won’t be as fast-acting as the poppy’s milk, but it’ll do. Geralt sinks back into the mattress and pillows. His eyelids can barely stay open.

Jaskier’s fingers curl against his chest. “You need to rest,” he says. “The healer said you lost a lot of blood and that you need to rest – so I don’t want to hear anything about you being _fine_ , or that your _Witcher-y-ness_ will have you right as rain by the afternoon. We don’t need to be in Kaer Morhen for another few weeks. So you’re going to _lie there_ , and _sleep_ until you feel better. Do you hear me?”

At that, Geralt’s eyes open again. He settles the bard with an arched eyebrow. “I hear you,” he rasps.

Jaskier blinks. Tears sting the back of his eyes. “Good,” he says stiffly, pillowing his head on Geralt’s uninjured shoulder. “So, off to sleep with you.”

The arm beneath him moves. It’s slow and heavy, but eventually Geralt slings his uninjured arm over Jaskier’s shoulders, keeping the bard close to him. “Whatever you say, little lark."

**Author's Note:**

> tumblrs:  
> yourqueenforayear (personal nonsense and terrible humour) || agoodgoddamnshot (writing)
> 
> Kudos & Comments always welcomed! x
> 
> Stay At Home. Stay Safe x


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